


The Journey Begins

by azryal



Series: Travellers [4]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:20:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorne remembers the first time they met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journey Begins

I’ve been in Los Angeles for almost a year, and I’ve learned some things:

 

Number One: I love music. I love listening to it. I love watching people sing. I see things when they sing, things about where they’re at, where they’re headed. Even the tone deaf show me a picture of their lives and their futures, and it’s remarkable. It’s addictive. It’s fun. I discovered it by accident, when one of my clients started humming to himself while he masturbated and came all over my face. 

Number Two: Clothes make the man, or whatever species you happen to be. I have a closet full, gifts from regulars who are always trying to "compliment my skin". Hey, I’m green.  VERDANTLY GREEN.  I’m pretty much gonna clash with everything, but who am I to turn down Dolce and Gabana?

 Number Three: Humans are sick individuals who will pay great quantities of currency to say they have had sex with otherworldly beings.  Back home they’re called ‘cows’, they should be called ‘dogs’. Males, females—it doesn’t matter. They’re all the same.

 I have a Rolex, piles of jewelry, more clothes than a princess, and the deed to a small building just north of Hollywood. Don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet, but I’ll think of something. It’ll be there when I’m ready. It’s almost time to move on. Just a few more weeks, and I’ll be able to buy out my contract. It won’t please the _pistola ruffiano_ that his biggest sell is getting out of the business, but he’ll get over it when I dump a wad of cash in his fat, Italian lap. 

I’ve got a party tonight. I always like these the best. Get to step out, mingle, _kibitz_. I chose my favorite red silk suit and a gold shirt. I leave the top button open, forget the tie. I’m for atmosphere at these things. Just a conversation piece, really, but I have met a few people who turned into clients later. This one could be fertile hunting. It’s a cocktail party for a bunch of lawyers, some holiday celebration. The orders came down to ‘look appealing, talk nice to them, and, above all, no relations on the premises.’ Fine, can’t imagine how attractive a lawyer could be. I mean, I watch LA Law. Come on.  

 

One word: Boring. 

For a group of drinkers, and, boy, these lawyers are that, they are depressingly low key. I keep hoping for a fight, or some drunken dancing on tables, but there’s nothing.  It’s just a bunch of look-a-likes in nice, conservative clothes, standing around in groups and talking very quietly. I do my thing, counting down the hours until I can get back to the brothel and get some REAL work done. This is pathetic. 

There’s suddenly a big commotion from a far corner, and a sort of cute, but mostly scrawny and pale, suited twin comes into the center of the room. He’s carrying a box, nearly half as tall as he is, with wires dangling behind it. He hoists it up onto the round table in the middle of the room, and starts fiddling with buttons and switches. 

"Hey, Lee! Is that what I think it is?" a voice calls from the crowd behind him. 

"Uh-huh," is his only reply. He smiles and turns to them with a big smile…and a microphone. "I’ll go first if no one else volunteers!" he says this with a threat in his voice, and he must be serious, because four or five other people nearly leap out at him.

This should be interesting. I mean, this is the most life I’ve seen out of the lot of them since I got here. Now there’s laughter and joking, more like a party should be. I’m curious to see what this little machine is, so I grab a barstool and wait. 

Oh, listen! Music! The Supremes…ah…Diana Ross has a beautiful voice… 

…but that is NOT Diana’s voice I hear over the notes.  It’s Lee, still holding the microphone and singing all by his lonesome…. 

"Whenever you’re near I hear a symphony…" 

He wasn’t joking about the threat, but I’m enraptured. Not by his singing, or by his very short destiny I read, but by this marvelous little machine. It plays the music, shows the words, and the people just sing to it?  Heaven!  

I watch as they line up, ready to humiliate themselves in honor of a good time.  Wonderful! They look anxious, even eager to take their turn at the box. I could charge money for this! People would be lined up around the block! Plans for my little building in North Hollywood start forming, but I have to find out what this tiny miracle is, first. 

Turning to the man next to me, I ask him, "What IS that thing?" 

He laughs into his drink. "What rock have you been under? It’s a karaoke machine." 

"Karaoke, eh?" I answer, thoughtfully. I actually look down at him where he’s slumped over the tumbler of bourbon his drinking. Sleeves rolled up, top few buttons of his crisp white shirt open; he looks like he came here straight from work. "And where can I get one of these wonders?" Then he raises his eyes to mine. 

I’ve seen lots of blues; sky blue, sapphire blue, the palest, almost white blue, but this is sparkling, clear spring water blue. I swear I can see into his heart, his mind, his very soul, just by gazing in their crystal depths.  The longest lashes I have ever encountered on a human fringe those eyes, and flutter just a little drunkenly up at me.  He smiles with the sweetest, most perfectly shaped mouth and says, "You can get them anywhere. You’ve really never seen one before?" 

I shake my head, all capacity for speech lost for the moment. Sister Mary Margaret! Where did you come from? Can I get one just like you? I have a sinking feeling in my guts, a whirly bit of glitter spinning in my vision, and I hear that damned machine start playing "Unchained Melody" just like in a sappy romance.

Geez-Louise. 

Lee suddenly appears, throwing an arm around me and nearly falling in my lap. "Hey…L-L-L—Lindsey! When are…are yooooo gonna sing?" 

"I’m not." 

Disappointed, I glance over the staggering man’s head. ‘Lindsey’ has turned away again, back to his drink and his Holiday Blues. Lee leans closer to his co-worker and whines, "Awwwww…….come on! Ever’one else is doin’ it!" 

The Beautiful One shakes his head and knocks back his drink. He looks surprised when I tell him, in what hope is a mild, easy-going voice, "I’d like to hear you sing. I can read your destiny." Oh, yeah. Let me see what’s in your future, little boy… 

Lee gets way to close to my face. "Hey!" he blurts out, covering me with gin fumes that could flatten a corn field, "You din’t tell me MY desin-dets-detstany!" 

"Honey, I doubt you’d remember it if I told you." I sigh and think of that wonderful thing called karma,

then tell him, "Stay away from rival firms. It’ll save your life." 

"Rival?" he reels backwards, finally getting off of me. "Hey!" he cries, weaving off to another group,

"I’m gon’ get a better offer!" 

I shake my head. Why did I waste my time? 

"You do that?  Read destinies?" 

That’s a nice voice, like honey and whisky; sweet and rough and warming around the belly area. 

"Yeah," I answer, turning my body towards his. Body language cues in place, I duck my head closer to his and say, conspiratorially, "But don’t let it get out, or I’ll be here all night." 

Praise Allah!  He’s moving, too, angling his chest so that he can lean one elbow on the bar and face me. 

"You already told Lee." 

My eyes move over his face and down the open front of his shirt. Smooth, firm, just a little tan…nice. 

After I take a long look, I shift my gaze back to his eyes. "I get the feeling no one much listens to him. What about you, Lindsey?" I ask, throwing his name in like the pro I am. "Do people listen to you?” 

"Sometimes."  Eyes crinkle at the corners with his grin.  Oh, by the gods, he is cute! I find myself wondering what his mouth does when he eats, what he looks like when he’s asleep, what expression he wears when he…you know… 

He’s definitely showing interest.  That bright gaze is taking in my face, my horns, even lingers a bit long on my lips.  I feel a blush, but it’s dark and I’m green, so hopefully he won’t notice.  "So, why won’tyou sing?  You can’t be any worse than…well, anyone else here." 

"I’m not." 

A man of many words.  "So, why won’t you get up there?" 

He takes a moment to order another drink.  "I only sing in private." 

"Alright, let’s go," I say, smiling just a little, putting as much invitation in my voice as possible. He’s about to answer me, but my watch alarm goes off. "Dammit! Always when I’m just starting to enjoy myself.” 

Still smiling, he asks, "Time to go, huh?" 

Sighing, I nod. "Unfortunately, yes. The boss docks our pay if we get back late." 

"Hmmm," he says in a disappointed tone.

"Maybe later?"  I question, hopefully. 

"Maybe." 

"You know where to find me." 

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a card.  "Now you know where to find me," he says, handing it to me.  It reads "Lindsey McDonald, Esq., Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys-at-Law." 

"Well, Lindsey McDonald, it was a pleasure meeting you," I tell him, offering my hand. 

When he takes it, I feel a jolt of electricity shoot up my arm and down to my groin.  "Pleasure meeting you, too…?"  He pauses, waiting for my name. 

"Lorne," I supply as we shake. 

"Lorne," he replies.  He’s still smiling at me as I turn away and make my way across the room.  Yeah, I’m strutting, just a little.  Too bad it wasn’t to something more appropriate than the massacre of "What’s New, Pussycat?" by some guy with a graying Caesar haircut. I make do, though, and look over my shoulder just to be sure he’s still watching when I flash him one, last smile.

 

 "So, that was the first time I met Lindsey." 

"That’s kind of….anti-climactic." 

"No, the climax came later."  Much later, but he doesn’t have to know that. 

"But he sings in the club.  You said he used to come here all the time." 

"He did, eventually.  In fact, he was the first person to sing on that stage." 

"Humph." 

"You just don’t like him, do you?" 

Angel sits back in his seat and swirls his drink around in its glass. 

"No answer?  Why am I not surprised?" 

"I don’t want to like him." 

"No, of course, not. It’s your loss, Angel-puss." 

"Whatever," he sighs.  He finishes his whiskey and gets up to leave. Before he gets halfway across the empty floor, he turns back to me and asks, "Is he here, now, in LA?" 

"You know he’s not. He won’t set foot back in this town without you knowing it. You two are connected, whether you want to admit it or not." 

"What about you and him?" 

I stand up, unconsciously meeting the quiet challenge in his voice. "Not the same. I like him. He likes me. Nothing metaphysical about it."

"And you and me?" 

"I like to think we’re friends."

He nods, and leaves as suddenly as he arrived. 

Spending time with Angel gets more and more exhausting.  I’m wiped. I’m going to bed.

 


End file.
